Wednesday, March 07, 2007

It's been a long time...

Some have been asking, Where art thou, T-15?


It has taken damn near two weeks to be of sound mind and capable of sitting up straight and formulate sentences beyond pointing and grunting.

What happened?

Well, this for starters...

Yes, what better way to celebrate my exodus from bacherlordom than with 80 ounces of stone cold malt beverage strapped to my beaters.

Now, let me splain, I love me some charcoal filtered goodness of OE 800, but like the SOS band, I like to "take my time and do it right."

There is absolutely nothing about taking your time or doing it right with edward 40 hands.

Rather, it is a race against your bladder, to drain dem junx before you have drain your junx. Otherwise, you run the risk of becoming edward pp pants.

One a quick aside, what is one to do if one is allergic to gluten, but compelled to play EFH?

In a word, improvise.

In several words, find the equivalent volume of gluten free beer and tape that all up on your arm like so...

But I digress...

Prior to that weekend, me and my squirrel bladder were a bit scared at the prospect of this game, but my participation was inevitable as a moth to a flame.

When it became go time, edward 40 hands was the least of my worries.

You see, the fear of edward 40 hands is usually governed by the fact that once you knock out those 40s you are home free. Not me. The evil genius MC's (masters of ceremonies) saw EFH as an appetizer, an appetizer for destruction, followed by a shot of After-Schlager, Malt Liquor Helmet, Margarita and some Absynthe. The last thing I remember is wearing a pair of earmuffs made of tallboys of Colt 45 and connected to a tube that went right into my mouth.

This is what Gladwell calls a tipping point, as things stop going in and start coming out and all cerebral records crash.

Well all but one registry was purged, Casey's Drafthouse, located in Pittsburgh.

What, pray tell, would cause that one memory to stick amidst the wash of malt-memory eraser?
1 word...manboy.

What is manboy you ask?


A midget.

A midget who spends monday nights in a treehouse.

A midget who spends monday nights in a treehouse located at the end of the bar.

A midget who spends monday nights in a treehouse located at the end of the bar until someone ponies up $10.

Then the magic happens.

Manboy descends from his tree house, scurries across the bar to grab a bottle of grandpa's cough medicine, and then runs back and forth pouring its contents into the mouths of patrons.

I know what you are thinking, that after the forty hands, I starting speaking in tongues and seeing strange visions (after all Absinthe was in the mix right?), and this whole midget madness is nothing more than an artifact of a really twisted imagination.

We'll this link says otherwise.

As does this picture.

So who is up for a road trip to da 'burg?

No comments: